


Fixing Mistakes

by Tvieandli



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tvieandli/pseuds/Tvieandli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're trying to fix their mistakes, but they just keep making more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixing Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of shorts. Can be read separately, or together. The last one was actually written first.

There’s something cold seeping through him.

The look on Damian’s face.

“Forgive me,” almost a question, almost a plea. The terror there. The fear. The resignation.

He believes. He truly believes that he will never be forgiven. He understands that this is not the way he wants things to go.

“-father for I have sinned,” because he’s trying to cover it up. Because Bruce is his father. The father he worshiped from far away, watching every move, memorizing every motive.

The hand pulls free from Morgan’s forehead and balls up to hide Damian’s eyes as he sinks to the floor. They don’t have time, but Damian is breaking down, little shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Bruce finally understands. He gets it when he picks Damian up, and carries him out, little arms slung around his neck, face buried against the cowl.

“I’m sorry,” a little whisper against his shoulder.

Bruce doesn’t say anything. Just holds him closer. It’s going to be okay. They’re going to be okay. They can fix this. They can put this family back together. He truly believes that when he pulls them to shore, and curls around his broken son.

They’ll make it.

-

His fingers are white on the bedside table, curling around the hard wood as he waits. Damian’s shallow breathing still sounds a bit grating -rasping and terrible.

Alfred had been white as a sheet. He’d been terrified as he took off his gloves, rolling the latex down off his wrists. He wouldn’t say why. He wouldn’t say, but Bruce knows it’s bad. It’s horrible awful-bad, and he can’t do anything to make it better.

Maybe Morgan had liquified one of his organs as promised. Maybe Damian wasn’t going to wake up, and it would be his fault for not trusting the kid.

Bruce’s fingers are white on the bedside table from how hard they’re gripping, but his face is stony calm that masks the panic fluttering in his chest.

He can’t think of a single thing worth doing right now. Can’t think of anything that will maybe, possibly make him better.

Damian moves, head falling to the side on his pillow. When his eyes open, his father isn’t there, and he’s alone. It isn’t a shock. He’s alone most of the time. But he could have sworn he felt someone standing beside him. Can barely taste a hint of cologne in the air.

“Are you there?” he asks quietly to the room at large. There’s no response, only the fluttering curtains. He stares at the cast on his left hand. He failed. Why would his father want to be there with him when he failed?

Bruce’s head rests on the wall outside the door. Listening, and watching from just out of view, as Damian picks at the cast and finger splints. He wants to go in, and apologize. He knows it’s the right thing. It’s all he thinks about as he puts one foot in front of the other, and walks away.


End file.
